


Green Eyes

by Lori_S21



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Eventual Romance, M/M, Slight (!!!) hints of jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 04:57:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16591247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lori_S21/pseuds/Lori_S21
Summary: Daryl sees so much. Too much sometimes. He can see Aaron and a certain Paul Rovia growing closer and just knows he's going to have to read Paul the riot act. For Aaron's own good of course. Not for any other reasons. Not because Paul fascinates him. Not because he misses the little ninja. And certainly not because the sight of the two of them together makes him want to break things. All the things.Of course not...





	Green Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> **Author disclaimer: This is just a bit of fun. I have nothing against the idea of Jesus and Aaron getting together on the show. They are a couple in the comics (and yes okay, Daryl doesn’t exist in them…), and any LGBT representation is better than no representation at all. Both actors are brilliant and would smash it out of the park and - I can grudgingly admit - would be adorable. But I am a Desus shipper at heart, so couldn’t resist writing this. Let me know what you think.**
> 
>  
> 
> **Please keep in mind (slight new season spoilers), this was written before Aaron’s accident. And certainly before episode five. Enjoy…**

He was going to have to do the ‘Over Protective Dad’ thing wasn’t he? 

Daryl grinds his teeth, clenches his fists and digs his boot heel into the dirt like a cartoon bull or slightly irritable chicken. He really doesn’t want to do this. He’s not even sure how to go about it, where to begin, if he even has the right. He already feels deeply uncomfortable and hasn’t even laid eyes on his unsuspecting victim, a certain Paul ‘Jesus’ Rovia.

Maybe Rick has some advice? Some innate fatherly wisdom to impart? Or better still, maybe he can be the one to give Jesus - Paul, whatever - The Talk? He knows this isn’t an option, although the thought is tempting, setting Rick Grimes in full Papa Mode on Paul. But deep down he knows it’s his responsibility. Something he has noticed and anyway, the thought of trying to explain it to another party makes him feel ridiculous. This whole _situation_ is ridiculous. 

Daryl hates to get mixed up in other people’s business, especially when he isn’t directly involved. Almost as much as he hates discussing feelings. It makes him want to storm off in the opposite direction in a manly yet dignified fashion. He’d rather face a hoard of rotting walkers. Or sample one of baby Judy’s lovingly crafted mud pies (admittedly two very different scenarios but he is on the verge of panic here).

The bottom line is, he cannot allow one of the few people he cares about on this planet get hurt again, not when said friend has already suffered so much.

Aaron is a grown man who can take care of himself - Daryl knows this. Aaron also has an enormous heart, is mourning the loss of his husband and that kind of grief never really goes away. He’s hurting, vulnerable. Hiding his pain away with the raising of baby Gracie, showering her with love and affection. It’s enough to melt anyone’s heart. Even a wily little scout with ninja-like tendencies. 

He supposes the two of them make sense from a certain point of view. Both fighters, attractive — he’ll admit — kind but tough as nails beneath it all. Great hair. And gay; not forgetting gay. Daryl has no problem with that. The gay. His brother and daddy on the other hand… But he’s not them and they’re gone. He used to try to be like Merle, now is able to embrace the fact that he isn’t. His real family from Carol and Rick, to Beth and Michonne have made him stronger, made him better. Could’ve gone the same way for Merle and it’s a thought that hurts.

But it isn’t anyone’s business, who’s loving who. Love is love, especially in this world. It’s something you need to hang on to.

He thinks he can see something happening, some feelings developing. At least on Aaron’s side. It all started with the missions. Pairing off the two of them constantly in a way that made Daryl suspect Maggie was doing it on purpose. He only noticed because he quite often used to partner up with Paul himself. They’d become a little team. Paul didn’t mind Daryl’s silences, and even understood his shorthand way of communicating through hand gestures and looks alone. He’d talk to Daryl about anything and everything, cracking jokes and teasing. Always willing to listen when Daryl felt like sharing, sitting there with kind eyes and endless patience. That was hard to come by. Not that he misses him.

But now Paul’s paired off with Aaron. Going on watch together. Herding walkers away, on Diversion Duty. He’s noticed. And he sees them come back, laughing and joking, standing a little too close together, like there was trust building between them. Like they felt comfortable in each other’s presence. Like Aaron can string more than two sentences together around him. Not that Daryl feels envious of that. Sometimes he’d see them engrossed in conversation on the Barrington house porch, baby Gracie on Paul’s knee. A sweet sight that made him uneasy though unsure why exactly.

And then there were the classes. Those bloody classes. 

Daryl only went to them out of professional interest. He was curious to see just exactly what Paul was teaching the innocent children of Hilltop in his self defence classes. It’s not that he didn’t trust him… Well, that smile could certainly be a little devious. It couldn't hurt to keep an eye on someone who smiles like that, especially when he’s shaping young minds, not to mention _arming_ them. He was there purely to supervise. Of course, he’d discovered it was harmless. And grudgingly, he can admit, completely adorable. Seeing how Paul interacted with the group of a dozen or so kids, treated them with courtesy and respect, like they were tiny adults, even crouching down to their level. He was funny too, warm with just the right amount of authority, completely in control - even when they got a little unruly (Daryl was keeping his eye on one of the older show offs. A glance alone was enough to make all the colour drain from the kid’s face). In conclusion, Paul was the kind of teacher that would have made you want to stay in school, Daryl privately thought. 

He was patient, showing them moves over and over, coaching them with gentle encouragement. And when on occasion Paul displayed some of his moves, he was so light on his feet, like a dancer, lithe and graceful as always. It was hard to look anywhere else. The children clearly agreed. They adored him. Called him ‘Mr Jesus,’ respect and adoration in their eyes. He usually wore his hair neatly coiled in a bun, long neck exposed… Not that Daryl had been looking.

The classes took place in the sunlit Hilltop courtyard, sounds of laughter and scuffling ringing out through the camp. It was nice. Sometimes other Hilltoppers would gather just to watch. And occasionally, Paul would pick on the spectators, trying to coax them to get involved, to help him with the demonstrations. Little man had a smart mouth (or so Daryl thought) and quite often, loved to aim it Daryl’s way.

“Come on! If you’re going to keep lurking in the corner and glaring a hole in my brain you may as well be my partner.” The use of the word ‘partner’ had confused him for a few seconds. But once he realised Paul meant to demonstrate some of his wacky ninja moves on him, most likely humiliating him in front of the next generation, thereby permanently losing their respect, it was a hard pass. He settled for glaring harder and a surly: “Keep looking, Mr Jesus.”

At least it had made him laugh.

Enter Aaron. He’d accepted Paul’s invite to learn some moves and was only too happy to help out with his demonstrations. 

“Don’t you hurt me,” Aaron once jokingly protested. “You said I could just watch!”

“But this is more fun…” Paul had grinned and Aaron had given him one of his smiles that made the corners of his eyes crinkle up. It had put Daryl on guard.

The two of them, pressed together. Paul gently flipping him onto the floor, explaining each step carefully, leaving the children caught between curiosity and laughter. Then offering him a helping hand to find his feet. Aaron always accepted, laughingly, looking like Paul had personally hung the stars. Teacher beaming back at him, reminding him of the way Paul sometimes looked at Daryl himself, ducking his head like he was shy, though they both know he is anything but. And that was good. It was. Paul had found someone and Aaron was smiling again. If it was genuine.

And that’s what it all came down to. The part he wouldn’t know how to explain to a third party without feeling horribly awkward. Or looking stupid and jealous. The fact of the matter was… His main point of concern being… God it sounded so goddamned petty.

Paul Rovia was a flirt. 

That was all. A completely appalling, utterly shameless flirt.

Admittedly, it had taken him a stupidly long time to realise that’s what he’d even been doing. It’s just that Daryl wasn’t really used to that kind of attention, not since the world went to shit and probably not even before, if he’s being entirely honest. Wasn’t really his area.

He first noticed Paul’s behaviour all the way back during the war with the Saviours. He’d been in a bad place emotionally back then, they all had. What with losing Glen and Abraham. His luxurious stint at the Sanctuary. And now looking back he can see that Hilltop, that _Paul_ , had played a large part in healing the community and Daryl himself. 

When Paul had first stayed at Alexandria, Daryl kept a firm eye on him. He was still new and the circumstances of their first meeting didn’t exactly inspire confidence. He’d even suggested, within Paul’s earshot, that they keep him in the makeshift cell over night, rather than letting him crash on the Grimes’ couch. Daryl would keep watch.

Paul, or Jesus as he was known to Daryl back then, had simply laughed the way he’d laughed when Daryl had thrown that can at him when he was tied up on the road. Like he found Daryl’s pettiness simply adorable and said in front of everyone: “You just want to keep me all to yourself.”

Daryl had glowered and said nothing. But Rick had got this knowing little smirk on his face that Daryl hadn’t cared to think about too closely. Like the one he wore when Paul was unconscious next to him in the back seat the day they met. Rick had kept deliberately swerving so the smaller man would fall against him. 

And Paul had carried on like that. Brushing past him a little too closely. Beaming at him with that perfect smile. Offering to show him some of his fight moves: “So someone like me doesn’t kick your ass again” (Daryl none too politely declined with a middle finger). Asking Daryl about his day, gently prying as though Daryl were fascinating to him. He wasn’t used to that kind of attention and was pretty sure he didn’t like it. 

And then there was the Sanctuary. Daryl doesn’t like to linger on those memories for obvious reasons. It doesn’t help him to carry on, to move forward. How he was bound and caged, stripped and beaten. Tortured over and over again, trapped on Easy Street. None of it as painful as the memory of Glen ( _my fault my fault my fault…_ ), or the thought that maybe he deserved to be treated like this, every last second of it. 

But what he does remember, and thinks about quite often when alone, is the sight of the man he knew as Jesus, lying flat on he roof of that truck. The flash of hope he felt at the sight. And the fear for the younger man, tied up with his fear for Carl ( _oh, Carl_ ). But he knew how fast Jesus could be, that he’d be okay. There one second, gone the next. He just knew Paul was there for him.

He remembers how Paul had tried. How they’d found each other. How he hadn’t judged Daryl for his horrendously violent actions towards that one Saviour, Fat Joey - only offered sympathy. How he’d taken him home to the peace of Hilltop, even though Daryl was the one driving the bike, arms wrapped around him, holding him steady. He’d found him clothes, fed him, been so gentle with him. Daryl would be forever grateful for those first few blurry hours. For how he had _tried._

The man became Paul to him after that.

And so he had settled into life at Hilltop. He couldn’t go back to Alexandria because of Negan, found he didn’t really want to, not after… Too many ghosts, too much guilt. He’d made more of an effort with Paul from then on. Tried to be more open, less surly. Because he’d tried. 

They would go on watch together, sit on the balcony of Barrington House, sharing a rare flask of tea under the silent stars. The forest would stretch out before them, wind rustling through and Daryl would feel at peace. The woods always had that effect on him, even with Paul quietly prattling away next to him. It added to his peacefulness in a way, the sense of normality. One time Paul was talking about books he loved, describing the plot of one that had wizards and a magic school, with floaty soul-sucking monsters ( _call the school board_ ) and dudes who turned into animals and was incredulous that Daryl had only vaguely heard of it.

“You’re kidding me, right?” He’d asked, eyes shining. “Boy wizard? JK Rowling? Epic fight against an evil Dark Lord?” 

“Nuh-uh,” Daryl shrugged, though he had an inkling. He relished the way Paul’s enthusiastic hand gestures were becoming increasingly frantic with horror, the big nerd.

“They started to make movies from them, Daryl.” He almost sounded disapproving. 

“Sounds kinda lame,” Daryl had answered, because he knew it would wind him up. He stared resolutely straight ahead into the darkness and kept his expression neutral.

He could see Paul’s mouth practically drop open out of the corner of his eye. “Harry Potter’s not lame! You’re lame.”

He had to bite his lip to keep down a smile. “Good one.”

“I mean it Daryl, you would love it.” He turned to face the little geek with the most skeptical look he could muster. Paul looked very animated, smiling that fond smile again, face very close and earnest. His hair was loose and he looked beautiful in the dark. “In fact, if I find a copy of the first one I’m going to read you the whole damn thing while we’re stuck up here, my captive audience. You’ll end up begging me for more.”

It was an unfortunate time to take a sip of tea and Daryl had almost coughed up a lung, swallowing it the wrong way.

Once they had cleared Daryl’s airway - Paul thumping him on the back for good measure - Paul had explained to Daryl how he’d first read the book in group home (that had been a whole other conversation. How his dad, who Paul still reluctantly worshipped, had never stuck around and his mom couldn’t cope though she’d tried, Paul had admitted). That book had been an escape. It had blown his mind. He’d shared it with the other children and they’d pretend the home was Hogwarts (he couldn’t have heard that one right), flapping around the house with their coats tied like capes, brandishing pencils like wands.

Daryl had studied him for probably too long. The other man squirmed slightly and looked away. “Yeah, I know. Nerd alert.”

And for some reason, Daryl had a lump in his throat. “Nah. It’s nice.” Was all he could manage, before turning back to the view in front of him, aching to be back in those woods once more and okay with the idea of Paul joining him. 

He later told him Paul how had no time for books or films growing up - as if his brother would let him read in peace without calling him ‘Darylina’. He preferred to be out of the house, far away from his daddy, traipsing through the woods of Georgia. The woods meant freedom, sustenance, escape. Sometimes he’d camp out with his brother, if the weather were fine. They roast wieners over a campfire and Merle would show him how to set traps. When they were little. Before it became about the drinking, the drugs and women (in Merle’s case) and petty crime. They had managed to carve out some pretty decent memories away from that house. 

Paul had placed his hand on his, only briefly and Daryl knew he understood.

Every watch went like that. Sharing stories and teasing each other. Before Aaron came.

They still went scavenging together back then on occasion. Before the crops were thriving, before they were self sufficient. This meant they got to spend a lot of time together outside of Hilltop, relying on each other. He guesses that somewhere along the way, he came to trust Paul Rovia with his life. 

They were times filled with Paul hanging his head out of the truck window like a dog on long drives, sunlight in his hair, beaming over how ridiculous he knew he looked. Or singing old country western songs until Daryl begged him to stop. With Paul pointing out oddities to make Daryl laugh: _“That cloud’s shaped like a well-hung horse!”_ His uncanny knack for finding hidden treasures far overruled any of his deliberately annoying habits. It was like a second instinct. And it was nice to see him loosen up, away from the confines and responsibilities of the Hilltop, manner becoming less grave. 

Through it all, he always had Daryl’s back. One time they had spilt up to scavenge through a previously unexplored town. It wasn’t too far away from _that_ quarry (how Paul’s eyes had widened when he’d been told that story), so Daryl figured most of the walkers had cleared out and fallen down there the previous year. He was less cautious and was just rounding the street corner of a store when strong arms had pulled him back, hand pressing over his mouth. He of course had flipped their positions, slamming his assailant against the wall on instinct and drawing his fist back before realising it was in fact Paul. 

Paul who was wide eyed with controlled alarm and completely silent, breathing heavy, not even defending himself. He jerked his head to the right, towards the direction Daryl had been heading. Daryl had followed his silent instruction, looked around the corner and spotted about a dozen walkers not ten feet away, dragging themselves up the dusty road, straight towards them.

Paul had slowly reached out and placed a finger on Daryl’s lips, a thin line of warmth that went through him like a spark. 

_Stay quiet…_

Daryl nodded once in silent understanding, the walkers hadn’t seen them. Paul removed his finger, trailed his hand down Daryl’s arm, gliding over bare skin to steer him gently, but firmly, back to the wall. And then, completely unnecessarily, crowded him against it once more. Paul held his gaze, almost a challenge; _stay quiet, let them pass by, show me you can do it. Please Daryl…_

He kept his hand on Daryl’s wrist, looking up at him with those ridiculous blue-green eyes, and Daryl couldn’t look away. Not even to watch the progress of the walkers as they ambled past obliviously, groaning and gargling, all just background noise to him. Paul was inches away. He could have counted his eyelashes, pushed back a stray strand of hair, see if it was as silky as it looked. They just watched each other, breathing deeply, taking everything in. Daryl felt so warm. Paul’s expression was intense and serious for once, reading him, body so close and vital… Daryl clenched his hands, fighting the strange urge to put them anywhere on Paul’s body.

And then the walkers were gone and Daryl was pushing him away firmly, not hard enough to hurt, but Paul had looked as shaken as Daryl felt.

There had been a strange atmosphere on the drive home, he remembers. None of Paul’s usual singing or idle chatter. And that had been one of their last missions together. He still thinks about it sometimes. How unnecessarily close Paul had been, his heat, how good he smelt - so clean, hair fragrant and appealing. They way his body swayed into him… It was weird and completely Paul’s fault.

So yes, he has seen that side of Paul. Daryl had convinced himself it would be pathetic to read too much into it as far as he’s concerned, but an impressionable guy like Aaron? He could be in real danger of falling for Paul. Now Paul could be doing the same things with him. Smiling his knowing smiles, sharing his personal stories and invading his space, getting Aaron’s head in a spin.

So now he’s stood outside of Paul’s trailer in the dead of night like some kind of creeper, waiting to knock on the door so he can interrogate him about something he’d really rather leave well enough alone. It’s so stupid. He lives in the trailer most of the time when he’s staying at Hilltop. He’s being so formal, like a teenager meeting his date’s parents, when it’s supposed to be the other way around. Not that Aaron is his child…

If Paul’s intentions are honourable, that’s fine. That’s great. He’ll be happy for them. That’s the outcome he wants right? Someone to make Aaron happy again. He deserves it. They both do. Paul’s a good guy. A great guy in fact.

So why does the idea of that outcome make his stomach drop?

He can't understand why the sight of them laughing together makes him want to make it stop. Why seeing Paul and Aaron’s hands linked together, even briefly, makes him want to storm off away from the sight, maybe go to the woods and kill something. Why he’s starting to resent no longer being able to go on runs with his former partner. Only because Paul was clever and could handle himself. That’s all it is. That’s all.

He trusts them. He likes them both. They are both willing adults. He’s not homophobic, never has been. But there’s this insane, unfathomable part of his brain that screams out: _‘Not him. Please not him…’_ whenever he sees Aaron smiling that way at Paul. Like the idea two of them together feels kind of inevitable, yet it makes him want to break things.

The realisation comes fast and unexpected like a punch to the stomach. He trusts Paul. He wouldn't toy with Aaron’s feelings, not ever. The idea is ridiculous, absurd, offensive even. So why is he even contemplating doing this? Why has he talked himself into believing this tale?

He guesses he just doesn’t want to see anyone looking at or touching Paul Rovia like that.

The thought makes something sink in his chest. He takes in a few shaky breaths because no, it can’t be. He couldn’t possibly be that obtuse, that damn selfish. 

He’s going to walk away. Back away from the trailer right now, head over to Barrington House for the night. Maybe not even stop there. He could ride back to Alexandria. He could. It’s not that late. Why should he be driven away from his original home by that murderer they’re keeping prisoner there? He needs to outrun this. He can do it.

And just when he’s decided on this course of action, the trailer door opens. Of course it does.

And a startled Paul Rovia jumps half a foot in the air, just as Daryl lets out a rather undignified squawk of alarm. 

_______________________

 

“Jesus, Daryl!” Paul flattens his hand over his heart in a particularly dramatic fashion, beautiful eyes wide with concern. And if Daryl wasn’t so flustered himself, he would be relishing actually making Paul lose his composure for once. The little ninja was usually the one sneaking up on him, quiet like a cat.

And there’s a joke there about names and such but Daryl decides one of them has to be the better man here. Plus he’s too astonished by the idea of finding Paul’s eyes beautiful but…they just are. And then there’s the fact that Paul’s surprise is morphing into something not unlike pleasure at seeing Daryl and that’s making him feel absurdly pleased.

“Hey.” He begins and that’s about all he manages before he runs out of words, mouth suddenly dry. Paul looks nice. Real nice. Casual, with his hair loose and lying smoothly against his surprisingly broad shoulders, feet bare, wearing a white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Daryl toys with the hem of his own shirt, anything to look away from those eyes.

“Hey yourself,” Paul responds, sounding warm but slightly confused. “Why are you lurking outside my door? You do know you kind of live here, right?” He can hear he smile in his voice, damn him.

“Wasn’t lurking,” He growls out defensively, risking a glance. “Was just…hanging.” He immediately cringes at his choice of words. Just _hanging?_ Is he being ‘down with the kids’ now?

Paul seems to be thinking something along the same lines, if those raised brows are any indication. The tiny smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. He leans against the door frame, crossing his arms in amusement, casual and comfortable once more. Daryl’s heart picks up at the sight, like it does when he’s on a hunt. But he’s not sure whether he’s the hunter or hunted and has his heart always done that around Paul? He has a sinking feeling that it does., a fact he’s previously chosen to ignore. He twists the material of his shirt anxiously, only stopping when Paul glances down at his hands.

“Do you want to come in?” He still sounds amused but curious. Daryl can feel his own face flushing. 

“No,” Daryl says stubbornly, staring somewhere in the vicinity of Paul’s neat little feet, anywhere but those eyes. 

There’s a beat of silence where Daryl swears he can actually hear his own heart before it’s broken by Paul: “Okay.” He sounds breezy, as though it’s nothing to him what Daryl decides to do, but he can still hear the laughter in his voice. He knows him pretty well by now. Can tell when he’s suppressing laughter even whilst he’s schooling his expression into a mask of contrition. Used to do it around Gregory and even Ezekiel on occasion (though in a more fond, respectful manner than the former). It’s the way those eyes glitter wickedly. He can’t understand how no one else seems to be able to see it. They all think he’s so sweet. When the deceased former boss of Hilltop had ranted for five minutes about the value of a good scotch and how it was a travesty no more would be made, Paul had caught his eye, raised one of those brows, and Daryl just had to look away or risk actually smiling back at him.

And then Paul is moving away. Turning his back to Daryl so all he can see is that dark fall of hair against his shirt as he heads back inside. A clear challenge to follow.

And that trailer is that last place he should be going. Not until he’s sorted his head out. He needs to put as many miles between himself and Paul Rovia as safely possible in order to do that. But Paul has left the door open, like he knows Daryl will follow and Daryl’s feet, treacherous things that they are, do just that.

He puts his thumbnail in his mouth, worries at the flesh there as he crosses the threshold. Maybe he can still make this work. Read him the riot act. Shovel talk. But does he really want to know the truth? Does he want to hear Paul talk about his feelings for Aaron? Apparently there’s a curious and masochistic part of him that does. But he’s starting to think he’s played himself.

He tracks the other man’s movements as he walks over to the couch, perhaps intending to play a game of cards with Daryl. There’s a set on the table. He’s not sure when exactly that became routine, but seemingly it has. “Weren’t you going somewhere?” He tries to match Paul’s casualness, a mixed success.

The other man shrugs. “Well, now I’ve found you.” His voice is soft, still light though there is something almost confessional in the tone. Daryl swallows hard, feeling as though he’s being reeled in and what was that supposed to mean? Did Paul want him here?

The trailer is lit by the homemade candles Paul was so proud of Hilltop for producing. They have to go back to the old ways. The way the flickering light softly illuminates his features makes something twist in Daryl’s stomach. He feels a little lightheaded. 

“You that bored?” Daryl asks skeptically, closing the door in a way that feels too final. He watches Paul as he lowers himself into the worn cushions of the couch. He’s a little slower than usual, less fluid, slightly jerky. He gasps as he sits, hand placed over his left hand side.

Daryl is instantly on the alert. “You okay?’

And there’s that surprised look again only for a moment before it is replaced with a smile, genuine and warm. The surprise stings, does he really think Daryl cares so little for him? Is he that closed off? “I’m fine.” His expression turns a little sheepish, as though choosing his next words carefully. “Was sparring with one of the older kids and he got a little…overenthusiastic.”

Daryl simply looks down at him for a moment, processing, keeping the coffee table between them.“You saying a kid hit you in the ribs?” 

“Kicked me,” Paul cheerily corrected. “Don’t laugh.”

“I ain’t,” He clears his throat, begins to pace a little. “Was it Dylan?” The little shit with the crazy hair, Daryl thought. He was one of the older kids and was getting way too cocky for Daryl’s liking, showing off and not listening to Paul’s instructions. Maybe he’s the one who needs The Talk… Kid would probably shit himself. The thought is darkly amusing.

And Paul must read some of this in his expression because he’s chuckling, holding up a hand as if to placate him. “It was an accident. Don’t go getting ideas.”

And that throws Daryl a little, how easily he can read him. He cocks his head, “What kinda ideas?”

“Like going round and reading him the riot act.” And those eyes are bright, so aware, like they can see right through him with terrifying accuracy. “No one deserves that and I don’t want you traumatising the boy.”

Daryl scoffs at that, back to pacing though his mind is panicking slightly. He had come here to read a riot act after all. _Deny it. Deny everything…_ “Why would I do that?” He shoots back, hackles rising, on the defence.

“Because you like me.” And Daryl’s mouth falls open for an embarrassingly long moment as he whirrs around to look at the little ninja. He’s smiling still, teasing yet somehow…hopeful, sitting up straighter, taking Daryl in. He is projecting calmness and utter confidence and for once, Daryl can’t get a read on him. Is this part of his teasing? Has Paul worked out the way Daryl feels about him sometimes? How can he when Daryl’s only just working things out for himself? He _is_ infuriating. 

“I don’t know why everyone thinks you’re so charming.” He mutters darkly, giving Paul his best scowl to hide a smile at the thought. It’s not exactly a denial, but it will do and at least it’s making Paul laugh long enough for Daryl to cover up how shaken he feels.

“Are you going to sit down at least? You’re making me nervous.” He gestures to the cushions next to him. _Bad idea, bad idea…_

 _Well, that makes two of us._ Daryl thinks triumphantly. He relents, stalks over to the sofa with a pained sigh for show, and settles for perching on the opposite end, leaving as much space between them as possible. He’s sure Paul must notice and decides he doesn’t care.

There is a beat of silence where Daryl determinedly ducks his head, looking anywhere but Paul directly, but he can feel his eyes on him. It makes him shiver.

“What?” He snaps, meeting his gaze head on. He looks thoughtful and utterly enthralled by Daryl, as if he’s one of those goofy fantasy novels he can’t look away from and Daryl is momentarily alarmed by the thought that Paul is reading him just as thoroughly. _Man, it’s hot in here. Must be the candles…_

“Who finds me charming?” Paul asks, changing tack, voice low and smooth, the very definition of charming. Daryl is having none of it. Why does he feel as though he’s being seduced here? It’s confusing and is making him anxious, as though he’s the butt of some cruel joke. Paul likes Aaron, he reminds himself firmly. And anyway, it would make no sense for Paul to like him. In what world would that ever be allowed to happen?

“When d’you bash your ribs in?” Daryl counters to stop that line of thinking. And much to his relief, Paul lets it go after a pause and a wry little smile.

“This morning.” He sighs, rubs his eyes as he leans back into the couch. Daryl tries not to worry over how tired he looks. He always looks like this at the end of the day, when there's no one else around but Daryl, guard lowered. Just before they say goodnight, his face soft, sleepy, still projecting this calmness that draws you in, muscles loose and something almost vulnerable in his expression. “Haven’t checked them out yet. Doc’s not exactly set up for X-ray and there’s not much you can do for ribs anyway.”

“I know.” Daryl answers quietly. He’s been there. His daddy… He lets the thought trail off, meets Paul head on for a moment instead and sees sympathy and understanding. Yes, that’s right, he remembers telling him a bit about that. 

He shakes his head, breaking the tension. “Want me to look?”

 _Where_ did that come from?

“Ah…What?” And Paul’s now looking wrong-footed which pleases Daryl greatly. So he should be, for once.

“Your ribs? I’ve broke a lot of bones is all.” And he could kick himself. Is he actually suggesting they move closer? What is _wrong_ with him? All he knows is Paul is hurt, he isn’t moving right and that is as far as his thought process can comprehend. He just has to get over this tension, these strange new feelings. Except they’re not that new and that’s what’s scaring him.

“Uh sure,” Says Paul, sounding genuinely taken aback by the offer though not displeased. 

And then he’s doing just that, sliding closer to him so they are a barely a foot away, couch dipping with his weight, making Paul lean closer. And Paul is sitting up straighter, looking anything but sleepy now, if he ever was and Daryl isn’t so sure about that anymore. He feels like he’s being sucked into something again but this was his own suggestion and he doesn’t know how to get out, if he even wants to.

He feels like a spectator in his own body. He sees his hands, tanned and rough - definitely his own hands - reach out so slowly of their own free will, so as not to startle Paul, so he can stop this if he wants. He hopes he changes his mind, and dreads it. Then he’s taking hold of the hem of Paul’s shirt, the material is worn but soft. He runs his fingertips over it, before edging the material up a few inches, careful not to jostle him.

“It was my left side,” Paul says, voice hushed and he doesn’t answer because of course he knows which side it was. Paul was in pain and he saw.

He doesn’t stop to check his expression, keeps his eyes focused on the smooth skin he has unveiled. Paul leans back slightly, giving him clearer access, muscles shifting under pale, hairless skin. He hoists the shirt up carefully, bunching it in as a detached a manner as possible. He realises he could have unbuttoned it (or let Paul do this himself), but that would make this last longer, would be strangely intimate, the thought alone making him blush. Paul’s stomach is flat, smooth and unmarred, muscles clearly defined. Paul takes deep slow breaths that Daryl mirrors, longs to feel under his hands.

And then he’s placing his hand on that skin. Paul trembles slightly, muscles rippling but that’s okay. He feels warm, skin smooth to the touch. He feels his breath, even the faint pulse of his heart and that’s amazing. He runs his hand over the silk surface, feeling the outlines of his ribs, absorbing warmth. The way Paul quivers under his touch is mesmerising. He slowly trails his fingers over to his left side. Paul’s breathing speeds up a little, he breaks out into light goosebumps. Daryl wishes the skin of his own hands weren’t so rough.

“Tickles,” Paul says gently. And when he risks a glance up, he can’t help but return that sweet smile a little. He glows in the candlelight and Daryl just has to look away whilst he is still able. He’s sure Paul Rovia has trapped many people with those eyes and Daryl needs to focus. He suddenly feels very warm, a strange nervous heat blooming in his stomach that he cannot explain.

He can see where Paul is injured, the slightly darker flush of skin over his ribs, the way Paul tenses as his hand passes over it. His body spasms slightly at Daryl’s gentle touch, the rasp of callouses but he has to be sure. Paul gasps. It doesn’t seem to be more than skin deep.

“Easy…” He murmurs, passing his fingertips over it again, featherlight but sure. Paul wriggles slightly under his ministrations, pressing into his touch, then back into the sofa, as though he cannot decide what he wants to do.

“What’s the diagnosis Doctor Dixon?” Paul says in a low tone. He feels the words reverberate under his touch and has to swallow hard. Paul’s licking his lips and it leaves him spellbound.

“J-just bruised I reckon.” Trapped. He realises his hands are still resting on Paul’s body and quickly pulls them away.

“Yeah?” Paul asks, moving closer minutely as he rolls his shirt back down with a wince.

“Uh yeah. It’ll hurt like a bitch for a bit and you’ll have to sleep upright prob’ly.” He babbles, attempting to get up, get away. “Maybe I can get some ice for ya… I could look-"

“Daryl.” And that one word, its resolve, is enough to stop him from moving away, to freeze him in his tracks. That and the hand on his wrist once more, grip firm, hands so warm - does the man simply radiate heat or is it just the way he makes Daryl feel? “Daryl…” He repeats and it’s much softer this time, almost a question and then Paul is pulling him closer. Surprisingly strong for someone who is injured but Daryl can’t think about that right now. Not when Paul’s hand is stroking his wrist, feeling his pulse. His other hand has found its way to his shoulder, sliding up to the sensitive juncture where neck meets muscle, touch warm and sure. It has him shivering as Paul draws him closer.

“I just want to try something so please, please don’t hit me…” He whispers and then his face, that ridiculously beautiful face, is so close. And Daryl barely has time to feel strangely hurt by that - why would he hit him? - before Paul’s eyes are slipping shut as his mouth presses against his.

And okay. Yep. So he can get behind that too. Paul’s lips are full and soft, insistent against his, slightly moist, breath warm. And it’s all he can do not to snatch him up in his arms and press into him harder because this doesn't feel strange. This feels right. It’s like a fireworks display going on in his body, fourth of bloody July and new years rolled into one, the excitement, the overwhelming surge of adrenaline and something not unlike ridiculous, unbridled happiness covering deeply repressed passion.

One of Paul’s hands is stroking his jawline and his kiss is still so gentle but firm, talking what he wants, surging against him, mouth moving rhythmically and Daryl is lost and so alive in his arms. And the pleased little sounds Paul makes when Daryl boldly traces his lower lip with his tongue, suddenly desperate to taste him, is one for the ages. Paul’s arms wind around his whole body, whipcord strong and pulling him closer. And he feels that gorgeous smile press against his mouth before Paul sucks lightly on his lower lip, hands sliding into his hair. It’s so gentle, undemanding yet intense. And this is something he's always going to need more of.

He knows Paul meant to be chaste, to test the waters - he can tell by the hesitant way he leaned in. But then there was this fire, this rightness. His own hands find their way to Paul’s hair and he can finally confirm is as soft as it looks, and he’s tugging lightly and Paul’s practically purring. He’s pressing into every inch of the smaller man and it feels so good. He laps at his full lip, imitating Paul’s earlier actions, unable to control himself. It’s chemical and he can't keep denying himself this and he knows he will never not feel this way about Paul. Like the way his heart can’t stop racing at the sight of him, the sound of his voice before he’s even seen him. And this is fine. More than fine. This is right. And they aren’t hurting anybody - 

The memory hits him like a punch, cruel and brutal. He pushes back from that embrace and it’s one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do, hands on Paul’s biceps, curling into them reflexively. But the thought is like a shock of cold water. “Aaron!” 

And Paul has that gorgeous, sleepy expression on his face except this time his pupils are blown and his lips are all swollen and he’s looking at Daryl like that. Like he just wants to keep kissing and do a hell of a lot more to him. Daryl is shaking with how badly he wants to let him. Shock soon cuts through his expression.“What?” Paul chokes out, eyes widening.

And his hands are still on his shoulders, sliding down his arms and it’s really distracting, the heat of his touch. “What about Aaron?” Demands Daryl and he’s proud of how little his voice shakes. There’s this horrible, clenching pain in his chest as he waits for Paul’s answer. The wait is agonising but it’s the right thing to do. But the smaller man’s expression is still fogged over with confusion and (thrillingly) lust.

“…I was hoping we could do this without him,” Paul answers wryly, corners of his mouth doing that adorable upward tilt that makes Daryl want to taste his laughter. Not that Paul’s laughing at him. His puzzlement is just as cute and Daryl inwardly curses himself, tries to snap out of it. Even as Paul’s hands begin to trace patterns into the tense set of his shoulders and it feels amazing. He determinedly keeps him held at arms length, trying desperately hard to not to wonder what he meant by ‘do this without him...’

“No.” He grits out as firm as he can. “I mean, I thought you and him were…” And he can’t finish, he can’t. It’s tearing him apart.

Now Paul’s frowning like a grumpy kitten, God help him. “Me and Aaron were what?” And it’s not incredulous, it would appear he's genuinely not getting it. The one time Daryl needs him to understand…

“You know.” Daryl says, voice as small as he currently feels, less certain than ever. It’s jarring. A moment ago, he was soaring.

“I’m sure I don’t…” Paul’s voice is so low and undeniably sexy, and he’s trying to shuffle closer again but Daryl can’t let him.

“Paul!” He’s not proud of the way his voice cracks a little. “Thought you and Aaron were maybe…Y’know? Together?”

And he wants to stuff the words back in, really. But Aaron is his friend and if he’s getting in the way of their happiness… He can’t be that person. No matter how badly he wants to be that person. How much he wants to take those words back because there’s no way he can hear this. Especially not after that kiss, his realisations, the way Paul looked at him. Now he’s looking at him like he’s grown a second head and that’s…

That’s actually mildly encouraging. 

“ _Aaron?_ ” And he sounds like the thought is preposterous though it isn’t and Daryl can’t let that spark of hope take over, can’t let himself believe for one moment that he can have this. That he gets to have something so good, that makes him feel so…

“Aaron?” Paul repeats. “You think I’m involved with Aaron?” And his hands are sliding off Daryl’s shoulders and Daryl does likewise until they are no longer touching. And that’s good. Well, no it feels horrible but it’s the right thing to do. If Paul wants to be with Aaron there is no way he will stand in the way of that. Aaron deserves to be happy. And he wants Paul to be happy too, so very much, even if he’s not the one making him feel that way. 

He would do anything for him.

It hurts. The thought of them together is like a physical ache but he doesn’t have to stay here and watch.

And then Paul is cutting through his thoughts, tone unexpectedly sharp. “Why? Because the last two gay guys have to hook up? Aaron’s my _friend._ ” And now he sounds indignant and what did he just say? Hope begins to bloom. 

“Ain’t what I meant at all…” He trails off awkwardly, running a hand over the back of his neck. 

“Then why did you think I was kissing you? You really think I’m that big a dick?” Oh God, he sounds mad, and that’s actually a pretty good point. What was he thinking? He guesses he just couldn’t believe what was starting to dawn on him. That Paul could actually want someone like him. And now he’s pissed him off and boy, does Daryl wish he were somewhere else now. 

When Daryl looks up in a state of near total panic, and sees the mischievous twinkle in those eyes…

“You ass!” He shouts, punching him lightly on the shoulder, ignoring his first instinct to shove him over, mindful of his ribs.

“Ow!” Paul laughs and nothing has ever made him feel stronger relief. “I’ll have you know I’m deeply offended.” “No you ain’t.” Daryl scrubs at his face, hands rasping over stubble, horribly embarrassed. 

“No I’m not. But is it wrong I kind of like the idea of you thinking of me as the gay Casanova of Hilltop, seducing all the innocent lads of the apocalypse, straight or not?”

“I’d never go that far.” Daryl glares though he’s fighting down a smile. “And you are a dick.”

“Well, you like me anyway,” Paul teases, already shuffling closer in a manner that reminds Daryl of a cat about to pounce. “Even if you think I’m a terrible person, apparently.”

“You know I don’t - think that I mean.” Daryl admits grudgingly as Paul links their hands together, slowly, deliberately. It’s distracting. “Guess…I just found it hard to believe you liked me like that.” He shrugs, being painfully honest because he owes him that. He’s done him a disservice and it’s true, even if he feels like a love-struck school boy admitting it. “It makes no sense for you to want me the way I want…” He trails off. 

_The way I want you._

And then Paul is holding his hand, bringing it to his lips before pressing a gentle kiss to it, one that Daryl feels all the way down to his toes.

“Yes, it does.” He answers simply. And the way he looks at him says so much more. It tells him Paul is feeling it too. 

Then he’s cradling the back of Paul’s head, pulling him closer so he can press their foreheads together lightly, nuzzling him. “Aaron’s way nicer than me,” He whispers.

He feels Paul’s laugh against his face and can’t help but smile back for once. 

“True.” Paul replies softly. “But he’s not you.”

\------

**Do let me know what you thought, if you please. I may be tempted to post a little post episode 5 story starring this pairing. Though the rating will go up... Thanks for reading!**


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